


A Series of Very Bad Decisions

by damnedscribblingwoman



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Accidental Relationship, F/M, One Night Stands, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-25
Updated: 2015-07-27
Packaged: 2018-04-11 04:28:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4421348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/damnedscribblingwoman/pseuds/damnedscribblingwoman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A wizard and a witch walk into a bar. Tequila and bad life choices ensue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Between a rock and a hard place

**Author's Note:**

> Written for DramioneLove Adopt-a-Prompt 2015 for Prompt: #25 - from Dramionelove ~Love~ Fest - Hermione has just found out she's pregnant - with Draco's baby. It's Valentine's Day. How does she go about telling Malfoy he's about to be a daddy in T-minus 8 months and counting?
> 
> Thank you to my betas, Raistlina and Cali. Any remaining mistakes are my own.

Hermione rushed out the door, earning a stern tutting from the matronly woman she nearly ran into. She muttered an apology without slowing down, eager to put some distance between herself and the building she had just left. Her fingers curled around the wand in her pocket, but she did not draw it. It was the middle of the day in Muggle London; a wand was neither necessary nor called for, even if she still could not quite shake the feeling that someone was chasing her.

It was nonsense, of course.

No one had tried to stop her leaving; no one had come after her. The nurse had offered her a glass of water and petted her hair as Hermione tried very hard not to break down crying in the middle of the doctor's office. She could not help but cringe at the memory.

The older woman had assured her that it was all right, that there was no shame in changing her mind. And if Hermione wanted, they would be happy to arrange for her to talk to someone. Hermione refused. She did not want to talk to someone; she just wanted to leave so she could contemplate in solitude the utter mess her life had become, and her apparent inability to do anything about it.

Hermione stopped walking, leaning against a cast-iron gate, trying to stop herself from hyperventilating. She was not about to have a panic attack in the middle of the street. So she hadn't gone through with it, so what? Everything was going to be fine. She was smart, she was capable, she could do this.  
  
Except she couldn't. How was she even going to tell him? It did not take a seer to predict his reaction, and after she told him, then what?

Her wand was still digging into the palm of her hand, and Hermione considered Apparating herself at home. It was not particularly smart to use magic that obvious in the middle of the city, but the street was deserted. She knew better, though. In her present state of mind, she would only manage to splinch herself in the process, and she had made enough half-arsed decisions for the day. The witch took a deep breath, squared her shoulders and forced her legs to cooperate.

It got easier once she made it to the main street, which was loud with cars and people going about their daily life. The pavement was crowded enough that she had to pay attention to where she was going — a welcome distraction from the chaos inside her head. She hurried her step upon spotting the Underground sign in the distance, which proved to be a mistake when she bumped into a woman coming out of a store. The woman yelped, startled, and parcels went flying in all directions. A mortified Hermione started to apologise, but stopped mid-sentence.

"Ginny," she said. "What are you doing here?"

"Hermione!" The other witch looked just as surprised, but her startled expression quickly morphed into one of delight. "It's been ages," she said, kneeling down to gather the parcels she had dropped. "I haven't seen you since…" No doubt realising exactly when she had seen her last, Ginny quickly changed the subject. "Harry had a list of Muggle things he wanted to get for Teddy's birthday, but he has the flu, so I said I'd take care of it."

"How is Teddy?" Hermione asked, latching on to the safety of the topic.

"He's good. Looks just like Tonks. Harry and Andromeda spoil him rotten."

"That's… That's good." Hermione searched for something else to say, but her mind was both too full and too empty, and she wanted nothing more than to be somewhere — anywhere — else.

"Would you like to grab a cup of coffee? We haven't seen each other in way too long."

"I'm sorry, but I have some place I need to be."

Ginny pursed her lips, unimpressed.

"That's a lie, and you and I both know it," she said. "Harry said you needed space, but you've had a year of space; I'm done doing that. We're going for coffee." And with that she grabbed Hermione's hand and strode down the street.

"Ginny—" Hermione tried to object, but the younger witch cut her off.

"No. It's about time you and Ron got over yourselves." Her tone was brusque but not unfriendly. "People break up all the time; it's not the end of the world. And yes, he was a complete and utter prat, but that's no reason for you to cut off the whole lot of us too."

Hermione did not reply, letting herself be dragged by Ginny towards a little coffee shop in one of the quieter side streets. The battleground that her relationship with Ron had become had destroyed more things than just the two of them, and leaving had been easier than dealing with any of it — with any of them. She hadn't wanted to see their disappointment or test their divided loyalties. She couldn't lose if she wasn't playing.

"I'm sorry," she said, after they were both sitting in a corner booth in the almost empty shop. "I know I haven't been around much."

"You haven't been around at all, Granger," Ginny said, dropping two cubes of sugar in Hermione's tea. "I've seen more of Dumbledore this past year than I've seen of you, and he's dead."

A large portrait of the headmaster had recently been unveiled at the Ministry to commemorate the anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts, though Dumbledore spent notoriously little time there, preferring his portrait at the school.

"Ron…" Hermione started, trying to find the words to explain. "You're his family."

"So he gets custody of us?" Ginny asked dryly.

"Something like that."

"Merlin, you're a fool," Ginny said with a fond smile. "You're coming to Teddy's birthday party. And don't even start with me, Hermione. I know you've received an invitation; I saw Harry send the owl."

"I can't."  
  
As things stood, Ron was the least of her problems.

"Why not?" Ginny asked impatiently.

Hermione forced her fingers to release the hem of her skirt and smoothed it over her knees. Ginny would know soon enough, and Hermione was done running.

"I'm pregnant," she said.

Ginny beamed at her for a split second, but whatever she saw on Hermione's face stopped her from congratulating her.

"Who's the father?" she asked instead.

"Draco Malfoy," Hermione said before she had time to think of all the reasons why she shouldn't.

Ginny stared at her for a solid minute, too stunned to say anything at all.

"Draco Malfoy?!" she finally managed. "How did that happen?"

Hermione sighed, picking up her tea cup.

"A series of very bad decisions."


	2. Any port in a storm

_**Three months earlier** _

The scroll on the coffee table kept taunting her. Harry had known she would decline the invitation to the dinner party at his house, like she had declined so many before, but he had sent it anyway. Hermione appreciated that he kept trying, even if it only made her feel even guiltier. The witch got up with a sigh, unable to stand it any longer. She had to get out of the house, if only for a little while.

The streets were full of people, despite the late hour. Women in dresses too short, men in suits too garish, all of them loud and tipsy and happy. When had she become someone who resented other people's happiness just because she had so little about which to be happy herself?

The Warehouse was packed, which was unusual but not unwelcome. Hermione let the noise wash over her, loud enough that it drowned her thoughts. She pushed her way to the bar, where a discrete wave of her wand found her an empty seat. Liam, one of the bartenders, nodded at her in recognition and mouthed, "The usual?" Good man, Liam, not even a little bit surprised by seeing her alone and in need of a drink on New Year's Eve.

Hermione took her drink with muttered thanks, but her smile froze on her lips when her gaze fell on the man sitting on the other side of the bar. She had no trouble recognising the wizard, despite the poor lighting.

Draco Malfoy had never been one for blending in and he stood out now, despite the Muggle clothes. He was staring at his drink with the intensity of one who was hoping to find some answers at the bottom of the glass, which was not an unusual sight in that sort of establishment. No, the unusual sight was that of a pure-blood prat enjoying the company of Muggles. Not that Malfoy seemed to be enjoying much of anything, not even his drink.

Emptying her own glass, Hermione got up and made her way across the room. Maybe it was not very sensible, but she hadn't been sensible in years. The wizard looked up when her spell dimmed the noise around them.

"A wizard walks into a bar," she started mockingly, taking the seat next to him, which had just been vacated by a pretty brunette who had felt a sudden — almost magical — urge to dance.

The blend of surprise and distaste in Malfoy's face was so familiar that it was just like being at Hogwarts again.

"What the bloody hell are you doing here?" he asked.

"Having a drink," she said. "What are  _you_  doing here?"

"Having a drink," he echoed, turning his attention back to his glass.

The wizard looked much like she remembered him from Hogwarts — tall and fair, with skin too pale and edges too sharp. He looked older than the terrified boy who had stared at her, wide-eyed, as she screamed herself hoarse under Bellatrix's wand at Malfoy Manor, but his demeanour had recovered that blend of Black haughtiness and Malfoy arrogance that she remembered from their school years.

"The Malfoy heir in a Muggle bar," she said with a smirk. "It really is a brave new world."

"Isn't it just?" he agreed, playing with his glass. "Now kindly piss off, Granger. You're crashing my party."

People moved all around them, dancing and laughing and shouting, trying to make themselves heard over the loud music, but nothing touched the two of them. The silent bubble stopping the revellers' riotous noise from reaching them was Hermione's magic, but the dark cloud keeping people away, that was all Malfoy.

"Doesn't look like much of a party," she said.

"Maybe not, but it's a joyous occasion," Malfoy replied with a grim smile. "My father tells me I am to be married. So I'm celebrating." There was nothing celebratory about the way he gulped down the rest of his drink as if it were water.

"In a Muggle bar?" she insisted.

Malfoy shrugged. "Wizards have opinions about Death Eaters. Opinions they're only too eager to share. That's the downside of being famous."

"The word you're looking for is 'infamous'."

Malfoy sneered but didn't take the bait. Ignoring the witch, he succeeded in getting the attention of a bartender Hermione didn't know. "Two of these," he said, lifting his glass.

Hermione took the offered drink without comment and they drank in silence for a few minutes, she and the boy who had once called her a Mudblood. A younger Hermione — proud and righteous, and surrounded by people who loved her — might have scorned at the offer, but this older Hermione knew that any port would do in a storm.

"I fought on the wrong side of the war," Malfoy said, breaking the silence. "What's your excuse?"

"Maybe I'm infamous too."

Malfoy did not reply for a minute. When he finally spoke, he wasn't looking at her.

"Weasley is a tosser."

Of course Malfoy had heard about it. Her split from Ron had been both very ugly and very public. Rita Skeeter had taken the chance to get even and ran with it, spreading Hermione's life all over the Prophet — jumping from half-truths to outright fiction with the reckless abandon of someone with a score to settle.

And Hermione — who had faced monsters and dark wizards and the Dark Lord himself — Hermione had turned and ran. It hadn't been very brave, perhaps, but she was tired. Losing Ron had lost her her home and her friends and the only family she had left, and she didn't have the heart or the energy to deal with Rita Skeeter and her war of whispers. Hermione had fought a war — a real one — for her right to call herself a witch, but it had been all too easy to hide among Muggles, who neither knew who Hermione Granger was, nor particularly cared to find out.

"What is this thing, anyway?" she asked, frowning at the glass, eager to change the subject. "It's vile."

Malfoy laughed. "I don't rightly know," he said. "I asked the surly man behind the counter for the strongest thing he had, but I suspect he doesn't like me very much."

"Someone out there doesn't like Draco Malfoy?" she asked dryly. "I am shocked and appalled."

"As well you should be. You of all people should know, Granger, that I'm nothing but warmth and sunshine."

Hermione smiled despite herself. "I'm sure your soon-to-be-wife will be happy to hear it."

"Word of advice, Granger," he said with a self-deprecating smirk. "People drink to forget. Leave me alone."

"If this is what you're drinking to forget," she said, smelling her glass, "you have my pity."

Hermione caught Liam's eye and ordered tequila for the both of them, asking the bartender to leave the bottle. A smarter woman would not choose to stay and get drunk with Draco Malfoy, but she could be smart the other three hundred and sixty four days of the year.

"Remember how you said I should remind you of what happened on Bonfire Night if I ever saw you making another stupid decision?" Liam asked, placing two shot glasses and a tequila bottle on the counter. "This is me reminding you."

Hermione waved him away, undeterred by good advice.

"To bad decisions," she said, raising her glass.

"To bad decisions," Malfoy echoed before throwing back his drink. "That's your idea of an improvement?" he asked, making a face.

Hermione laughed. "It's something of an acquired taste," she admitted, topping up their glasses.

"I think you like me even less than the bartender."

Hermione smirked but did not reply. It would have been true, once upon a time. A different Hermione, living a different life. But she felt no affinity with the bookish Hermione who had walked the halls of Hogwarts, head held high even when pure-blood prats like him had tried to shame her for being who she was; she felt no connection with the terrified girl who had sobbed and screamed under the Cruciatus curse a few feet from where he was standing, her faith in her friends never wavering even when she thought the pain would kill her; she did not recognise the person who had walked out of the ruins of the school after the Battle of Hogwarts, proud and victorious and mourning her dead.

Tonight she was lonely and drunk, and she liked him well enough.

Hermione drank another shot, wincing at the burning feeling in her throat. "So, who's the lucky girl?" she asked.

Malfoy was quiet long enough that Hermione thought he would not reply.

"Astoria Greengrass," he finally said with a sigh, reaching for the bottle.

"Daphne's sister." Hermione struggled to remember the younger Greengrass daughter. She had been two years below them at Hogwarts, a petite, soft-spoken girl that shared her sister's polished good looks. "You could do worse," she said. And because she was not above being petty, she added, "She, on the other hand, could certainly do better."

"Old Greengrass doesn't mind a Death Eater in the family," Draco said, "providing it's a wealthy one. He's happy enough to whore out his daughter for money, and my father is happy enough to whore me out for status. Works out great for everyone."

Hermione stared at him in silence for a moment before asking, "Do you think the reason you have a Dark Mark on your arm and almost ended up doing a stint in Azkaban is because of your inability to just say no to your father?"

Malfoy smirked, asking without looking at her, "Do you think the reason you ended up alone and friendless, drinking by yourself at a dodgy bar on New Year's Eve is because of your inability to stop meddling in things that do not concern you?"

No, she did not think that was why.

"Do you think you feel the need to take a dig at me because you don't want to confront the fact that you have a pathological need to seek your father's approval?"

He smiled at her — a dangerous, calculating smile. "Well, that's just not the case," he said.

"Oh please," Hermione replied, turning her empty shot glass between her fingers, "name one time that—"

The kiss took her by surprise and for a moment she had no reaction. And then, to the immense chagrin of the detached part of her brain that was not soaked in tequila and starved of human contact, she melted into it, kissing him back with more enthusiasm than sense.

After all, what harm was there in one kiss?

 

* * *

 

Hermione was out of breath by the time the lift reached her floor. Malfoy made a sound of protest when she tried to push him away so that they could get off, and nuzzled her cheek before letting go. Walking out into the dim-lit hallway, she tried to get her bearings. The entire world was moving at the edge of her vision and her skin was tingling where he had been touching her just moments before.

Hermione was almost at her door when Malfoy caught up with her, wrapping an arm around her waist and pulling her back against him as she struggled to get the key in the lock.

"You're not helping," she complained, a shiver running down her spine as he kissed the side of her neck.

"What kind of witch needs a key to open a door?" he asked, fumbling with the buttons of her coat.

"The kind who sets wards against unlocking spells," she said, finally managing to open the door.

He followed her in without letting go, turning to pin her against the closed door once they were inside. Everything was dark in the flat, and for the moment it took her to blindly reach for the light switch nothing else existed in the world but his lips, warm and demanding, and his body hard against hers.

Malfoy pulled away so he could look at her, his pupils dilated and a slight smile on his lips.  
  
Merlin, this was such a bad idea.

"Bedroom," she said, letting her coat drop to the floor.

"Bossy," he teased, but he let her guide him across the small living room.

Just enough light came in through the open door of the bedroom for it to be possible to make out the contour of the furniture, but neither of them was paying attention to anything but each other.

Hermione pulled her blouse over her head before reaching forward with impatient fingers to help Malfoy unbutton his shirt. Her task was not made easier by the way he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her closer against him as he kissed her, but Hermione did not protest. There was no space inside her mind for anything but the feeling of him — his tongue in her mouth, his hands warm and soft against her skin, the muffled sounds he made against her mouth.

Reality shrunk down to the two of them — a world made of soft, butterfly kisses that ghosted over skin, of deep kisses that were all lips and tongue and took her breath away, of uncoordinated kisses made clumsy by soft laughter and wandering hands.

Hermione deftly undid the top button of his trousers, and Malfoy groaned his approval while leaving a trail of kisses on her neck. The witch tilted her head, exposing more of her neck to his ministrations, and in doing so happened to look down. It was too dark in the half-light coming in from the living room for her to see details, but there was no missing the dark shape on the inside of his left arm.

Malfoy ran his hands along her hips, over the fabric of her jeans and across her back down to her bottom. The moment his left hand fell on her wand, kept on her back pocket, Hermione froze.

His hands stopped moving and the wizard looked at her with an inquisitive look. Hermione pushed his hand away, trying not to flinch as Bellatrix's deranged grin flashed before her eyes. The dark mark had stood in stark contrast to the witch's pale arm, moving like a living thing every time she croaked, "Crucio."

"Let me put this away," Hermione said with a weak smile, fishing her wand out of her pocket and moving to the dresser, her back to the wizard. Her fingers dug into her palm, wrapped tightly around the wand. She made to put it down on the wooden top, but couldn't bring herself to release it.

Malfoy crossed the room to where she was, a solid presence behind her back, but he did not touch her. Without a word, he dropped his wand on the dresser, next to where she was still clutching her own. Taking a deep breath, she forced her fingers to let go. Bellatrix was dead and buried, and Hermione wasn't about to be haunted by a ghost.

"Granger," Malfoy said. "Look at me."

Hermione turned around, embarrassed. Of all the inconvenient times to freak out over a dead witch…

Malfoy cupped her face with one hand, tilting it up so she was looking at him. "Do you want me to leave?" he asked softly, his face half in light and half in shadow.

And it would be easy to say yes, to have him go so she could lick her wounds in peace, but she was tired of running. Maybe she was no lion, but she was no coward either. Instead of replying, Hermione leaned forward for a kiss, sighing contently as he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her against him. It started out chaste and soft and gentle, but it soon grew urgent and hungry.

And maybe it was a mistake, but the part of her — the sensible, bookish, smart part of her — who still had misgivings was overruled by the part of her that wanted him to keep kissing her, to keep touching her, to keep making her forget the world for a little while longer.

Malfoy was not Bellatrix, and whatever he had done, whoever he had been back when she herself had been a different person, she wouldn't hold it against him. Not tonight. She was more than the terrible, ugly things she had done, more than the terrible, ugly things that had been done to her, and tonight she would choose to believe that he was too.


	3. Out of the frying pan, into the fire

That should have been the end of it. A one-off, an isolated incident, the kind of mistake made once and never again.

Malfoy should not have showed up at her door three days later, soaked wet from the rain, his hands and mouth on her the moment she opened the door, and Hermione should've turned him away when he did, instead of pulling him inside and closing the door behind him.

The trouble, as they found out, was that the worst kind of mistake is one you enjoy repeating.

Hermione never knew when he would show up, uninvited and unannounced. They wrote no messages, sent no owls, and in the very rare occasion when they saw each other in Diagon Alley, they looked the other way and carried on with their day with the deliberate indifference of people trying too hard to ignore the other existed. But he would always drop by on those days, his a mute apology expressed with soft kisses and tender hands.

It was not a relationship, and she did not kid herself into thinking it was. It was simply two people backed into the same corner, discovering that dealing with each other was preferable to dealing with everything else.

Malfoy slowly got used to Hermione's very Muggle flat. He routinely decried all the Muggle technology she owned as useless, uncivilised and moronic ( _"Really, Granger, what does a witch want with an electric kettle?"_ ), but he was fascinated by her television. He would watch anything that happened to be on, even sports, which he hated even more than her very practical kettle

"They don't fly," he said for the tenth time. "What is even the point? That barely even counts as a sport."

"We could just change the channel." Hermione had never been much of a cricket fan; they certainly weren't watching it on  _her_  account.

"Did you see that? What a baby! He should fall off a broom forty feet up in the air; then he'd see what real pain is."

The witch hid her smile in the mug of steaming tea that her dutiful electric kettle had been instrumental in preparing. Watching him rave and rant at the telly was an even more entertaining spectator sport than the game.

They did not speak about Astoria Greengrass — they didn't bring her up when they cuddled on the sofa, watching Doctor Who re-runs; they did not spare a thought for her when they lay in bed, discovering the many ways to make the other come undone; they did not speak of her even in the quiet moments right before they fell asleep, when they seemed to speak about everything else.

Draco was not engaged — not technically, not yet — and neither he nor Hermione seemed inclined to bring whatever that thing between them was to a halt before they had to. In the end, it was Hermione who finally broached the subject.

The witch worked in a research position at Cobb & Webb's, a small shop in Knockturn Alley that specialised in dark artefacts, mostly removal work and curse-breaking.

That day, she was bent over a dusty old tome on Egyptian curses when a flustered wizard came in, looking discomfited, with a story about a dark floating orb that attacked anyone who came within five feet of it. Amelia Latrodectus, Hermione's boss, was not impressed.

"If there's a dangerous magical object in a public space," she said, looking at the wizard over her glasses, "you call the Ministry. That's the law. We can't help you."

"Come now, Mrs. L," he pleaded. "If I go to the Ministry, they'll show up in force, spook all the clients and shut down the restaurant. We're right in the middle of rush hour."

"Chernaya orbs are extremely dangerous and extremely unstable. You  _should_  evacuate. Look," she said, silencing the waiter's objections, "even if I wanted to help, my curse-breaker is not in at the moment."

"Monsieur Dufour said that if you help him dispose of the damn thing, you can keep it."

That got the witch's attention.

"Granger—" she started.

"Not my job," Hermione said without looking up from her book.

"Your job is what I say it is, girl."

And that's how Hermione had ended up in Diagon Alley, outside  _La Maison d'Être_. The restaurant was both exclusive and expensive, and Hermione had never been inside.

Heads turned as she crossed the main room after the wizard. Her Muggle clothes made her stand out, and many no doubt recognised her. She had almost reached the other side of the room when her eyes fell on one of the tables by the window.

Astoria Greengrass, lovely in lavender-coloured robes, laughed at something Draco had said and placed a delicate hand on his arm. Hermione recognised Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy, and it was no stretch to assume that the other couple at the table were Mr. and Mrs. Greengrass. It was a charming family portrait, and Hermione could've burned the restaurant to the ground on account of it. The violence of the impulse surprised her.

Draco's gaze met hers and she looked away, ducking into the open door after the jittery waiter.

Hermione was no fool. She knew that that thing between her and Malfoy had an expiration date; she had known it since the start. There was no bond between them; it was not a relationship. It was not her place to feel possessive, certainly not her place to be jealous.

"Get out," she said to the waiter and to the portly man in well-cut robes she assumed was Monsieur Dufour. The orb was pulsating in the middle of the dimly-lit basement, surrounded by a dark mist.

Tying her hair in a firm braid, Hermione forced herself to stop thinking about Draco Malfoy and Astoria Greengrass, and about how badly she wished she didn't know either one of them.

 

* * *

 

"We need to end this."

Those were the first words out of her mouth when he arrived at her place that night.

Draco closed the door behind him and dropped his coat on the back of the sofa.

"Why?" he asked without moving any closer to where she was pacing on the other side of the coffee table.

She had spent the afternoon rehearsing the conversation in her head, going over the list of all the many good and valid reasons why she couldn't see him anymore. In the end, she just went with the obvious. "You're engaged to be married!"

Walking over to where she was, Draco wrapped his arms around her waist.

"Technically, I won't be engaged for another fortnight," he joked with a soft smile.

"It is not right," Hermione said, but did not push him away. "Astoria—"

Draco rolled his eyes. "Astoria knows what she's getting into. She's not in love with me, and she knows I'm not in love with her. Marriage in families like ours, it's not how it is for other people." He tightened his arms around the witch and brought his forehead to rest against hers, nuzzling her nose. "Come on, Granger. What's one more bad decision?" he asked with a teasing smile.

Sleeping with Draco Malfoy on New Year's Eve — someone she barely knew and did not like — that had been a bad decision. To continue doing it when the mere thought of him married to Astoria Greengrass made her blood boil, that would be an infinitely worse one.

She stepped back and Draco let his arms fall to his side.

"We're done," she said, crossing her arms to stop herself from doing something stupid like reaching out to him.

His expression hardened. "As you wish," he said, and without another word, he turned and left.

Hermione did not move for several minutes, waiting for the pressure on her chest to ease. When it did not, she forced herself to move. Mrs Weasley always said that there were few things in the world that tea could not make better. In Hermione's experience that was not the case, but it could certainly not make anything worse. She stared at the kettle, waiting for the water to boil. It was just a fling. She could get over a fling.

The following days passed in a daze. Hermione devoted herself to her work with redoubled efforts, starting early and staying late. Her office at the shop was small and cluttered with piles of old tomes and stacks of paper, and never had she appreciated it more. Her flat — which had been her refuge for so long — suddenly felt too big and silent and empty.

Hermione stayed away from Diagon Alley.

A part of her kept expecting the familiar knock on the door ( _She had a doorbell! Why did he always knock?_ ), but it never came. She knew that she'd be happier for it in the long run, but that was meagre comfort just then.

Much as she tried to ignore it, her mind kept counting down the days until the engagement party at Malfoy Manor, when everything would become official. It aggravated her to no end. She had never pined for anyone, and she refused to pine for Draco Malfoy of all people.

When the day came, instead of making her way to The Warehouse like she wanted too — if she had listened to Liam's advice about tequila and stupid decisions the first time around, she wouldn't be in this situation — she headed home. Ice cream and a soppy rom-com felt like too much of a cliche, so she settled for tea and a _Back to the Future_ marathon instead.

She had just started the last  _Back to the Future_  when someone knocked on the door.

Hermione hesitated. Part of her wanted to ignore it, to pretend she wasn't in and just wait until he left. That was no match, however, for the part of her that had spent the last two weeks hoping he would show up, and had kept feeling disappointed when he didn't.

Draco cut a striking figure in his dress robes, but Hermione frowned at the sight of him. His pale skin looked ashen against the dark fabric, and she could smell alcohol on his breath.

"May I come in?" he asked, his words slightly slurred.

Hermione nodded, stepping aside to let him pass. He dropped his cloak on the chair by the door and sat down on the floor in front of the television, his back against the sofa.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Hermione asked.

He shook his head, and the witch did not press him. She prepared another cup of tea and placed it on the coffee table, where he could easily reach it, before settling back down on the sofa. Hermione unpaused the movie and they watched it in silence. Against her better judgement, she ran her fingers through his hair, a small comforting gesture that did not change a thing. Draco leaned into the touch but did not say a word.

When the movie was over, Hermione slid to the floor, sitting down next to the wizard.

"You should've seen it," he said after a moment, his voice dripping with loathing. "Everyone who is anyone was there. Old families, new money, even people from the ministry. I am shocked the Minister of Magic did not make an appearance at some point. If anyone could've pulled it off, it was old Greengrass. Fucking hypocrites, the whole lot of them. And father was so bloody proud."

Hermione laced her fingers with his. "I'm sorry," she said, bringing his hand to her lips and kissing it.

Draco turned his head to look at her, and brought his other hand to rest against her face, brushing the skin softly with his thumb.

"Draco…" she said as a warning, but she did not move when he leaned forward, kissing her. His lips were chapped and rough, and the angle was awkward, but it made her heart race.

"We can't," she said, pulling back. It was a terrible idea, and how much she wanted it only made it a worse one.

"Please," he said, his voice low and broken.

And just like that her defences crumbled, and she closed the space between them.

It was a poor, dumb, stupid decision, but she made it all the same.

Liam would not have approved.


	4. Come what may

**_Present day_ **

Hermione resisted the urge to curl up on the sofa feeling sorry for herself, and sat down instead, trying to think. Saying the words aloud to Ginny had made the pregnancy real to her in a way that it hadn't been before, even as she walked out of the clinic that morning, having decided not to go through with the abortion.

She was pregnant. In less than nine months, she would be someone's mother. She would be responsible for a tiny human being that would be entirely dependant on her ability not to screw everything up, and what a terrifying thought that was. She didn't feel old enough to be someone's mother; she did not feel mature enough for it. And she screwed up far too often for comfort.

She glanced at the framed pictured on the table next to her, and picked it up. It was a Muggle picture, the people in it did not move, but Hermione still remembered the day it had been taken, still could feel her mother's fingers on the back of her head, smoothing down her hair.

_"Everyone smile,"_ her father had said, before running over to where they were, just in time to beat the camera's timer.

She missed them. She missed them and she wanted her mum. She badly wanted her mum.

Erasing their memories had kept them safe. It had been necessary; it had been the right thing to do. And it had been such an easy decision to make — she shuddered to think just how easy. No one had ever broken a Memory Charm — not without doing unspeakable things — but she thought she could. She thought she'd manage where everyone else had failed. How was that for arrogance?

She put down the picture with a sigh. She could leave. She could pack up and leave, and start from scratch somewhere else. A clean slate. A chance to do everything right. It was an appealing thought, but Hermione knew better. No one in life got a do-over. Her choices had been hers to make, and the only thing she could do now was make better ones going forward. No more running. She had more than just herself to think about now.

There was no place in Draco's life for the half-blood child of the Muggle-born witch he'd been screwing around with, but she would tell him all the same. He had a right to know. And she'd go from there.

Despite Ginny's reassuring words, Hermione did not believe she still had a place with the Weasleys and with Harry. She did not believe her child would have a place with them either. But she would try. She would try to mend those fences, and she would try to find a place for them both with the people who had once been her family. She could not lose if she was not playing, but she could not win either, and Hermione would try. Maybe she was no lion, but she was no coward either, and she would try.

When Draco came by that evening, Hermione had just managed to calm herself down. Her composure lasted exactly until she reached the door.

Draco kissed her cheek in passing, launching on a tirade about Doris, her elderly neighbour who lived down the hall, who always seemed to know when he was coming and was sure to be waiting by the door, ready to start a conversation about her equally elderly cat Tobias, who — and he knew this because she had told him on multiple occasions — was seeing an animal therapist, on account of his nerves.

"I am telling you, that woman is a seer," he said, ducking into the kitchen for a glass of water. "That's the only possible explanation. There's no avoiding her. I've tried Disillusionment Charms, the  _Muffliato_  Spell…"

"Draco," Hermione said, trying to get his attention.

"I have half a mind to buy an invisibility cloak," he continued, "for the express purpose of not having to talk to that woman. And do you know how much an invisibility cloak costs? More than the GDP of some countries, that's how much. I am willing to spend the yearly income of a small country to avoid talking to your neighbour."

"Draco!" she repeated, before adding in a softer tone, "We need to talk."

It was enough for the wizard's expression to morph into one of concern. No conversation likely to go smoothly ever started with the words 'We need to talk.'

"What's wrong?" he asked, coming to sit next to her on the sofa.

Hours of thinking of the best way to break the news had yielded no significant results, so she just came out and said it.

"I'm pregnant."

All colour drained from Draco's face and his eyes went wide with shock. For a moment he was too stunned to speak.

"What?" he finally managed. "How?"

Hermione stood up, unable to sit still. "I know biology is not taught at Hogwarts," she said, wringing her hands, "but I would think the 'how' would be rather obvious."

Draco stared up at her, looking no less shocked now that he had had all of thirty seconds in which to digest the news.

"We were careful," he said weakly.

"Not careful enough," Hermione said with a sigh, sitting down on the coffee table, across from him.

They didn't speak for several minutes, lost in the enormity of it all. Hermione crossed her arms over her chest, wishing she was anywhere but there, having that conversation. Merlin, it was such an unmitigated disaster.

When Draco spoke again, it took her a moment to fully comprehend what he had said.

"Do you want to get married?" he asked.

"What?"

And up she went again, propelled by all the nervous energy she had been storing since the pregnancy test had turned positive.

"No, I don't want to get married! That's the most ridiculous idea you've ever had, and you once insulted a Hippogriff."

"Well, why the bloody hell not?" He sprung to his feet, propelled by some nervous energy of his own.

"You are engaged to someone else," she shouted, unable to contain her frustration.

"Engaged isn't married," he said.

"It's close enough."

He threw up his hands, aggravated. "I didn't want to marry Astoria in the first place."

"Which brings me to my next point," she continued, too worked up by then to measure her words. "You couldn't even tell your father you don't want to marry her. How exactly do you intend to break it to him that you got a 'Mudblood' pregnant?"

Draco looked as if she had slapped him, stunned and speechless.

"Is that really the issue?" he finally asked, voice low and dangerous. "Or is it the fact that you would never entertain the idea of marrying a Death Eater, even if you have no problems fucking one?"

"Screw you." All her anxiety and worry had turned to seething indignation. "I never—"

" _The Prophet_ would have a field day with this," he said, cutting her off. "The witch who broke the heart of a war hero got knocked up by the guy responsible for Albus Dumbledore's death. They would tear you apart. Again. And who could blame you for not wanting to go head to head with Rita Skeeter again? But next time you want to call me a coward, start by looking in the mirror."

Hermione was too aggravated even to care that she was crying.

"Get the fuck out of my house," she said with an unsteady voice.

"Gladly."

He stormed out without another word, banging the door shut on his way out.

 

* * *

 

Draco pushed the elevator button furiously, as if it were to blame for the way his life was slowly, but surely spiralling out of control. He had tried to Disapparate before realising Hermione's wards extended past her flat, so now he was left doing battle with the blasted contraption that always took half a million years to arrive.

Too irritated to stand there waiting for the damn thing, he made a dash for the stairs.

He made it down two flights of stairs before coming to a sudden halt, stuck between wanting to keep going and wanting to go back. What was he doing? What were they both doing? That first night hadn't been a mistake — if he knew anything, he knew that. Neither had any of the ones after. Leaving now would be, though.

No more displays of ego. He was not a child; he did not get to lash out just because his feelings were hurt.

Making his way back upstairs at a more sedated pace, Draco knocked on Hermione's door. He waited for a few seconds, but nothing happened.

"Come on, Hermione," he pleaded, knocking again.

He was beginning to think she was not going to open when he heard a click and the door swung back, revealing the witch. Hermione's face was blotchy and red, but she was no longer crying.

"I'm not leaving," he said. "We're going to talk about this."

After a moment, she nodded and took a step back to let him in. There was always a chance it would end in another shouting match, but for now they were both making an effort. Determined to do better, Draco grabbed Hermione's hand in passing and headed for the kitchen. Maybe he didn't know how to fix anything or make anything better, but he did know how to use that fiendish kettle of hers to prepare a cup of tea. He'd start there.

Ten minutes later they were back in the living room, sitting on opposite ends of the sofa. The tea was still too hot to drink, but it served its purpose in providing something for them to look at other than each other.

Hermione was the first one to break the silence.

"A baby," she said without looking at him, "is a terrible reason for two people to get married. You wouldn't have asked me to marry you if I wasn't pregnant, and I'm not going to marry you just because I am."

"Okay," he said.

"Okay?" she asked, as if suspicious of such swift agreement.

"Okay," he repeated. Contrary to popular belief, he didn't always have to be difficult. "But I want to be involved," he said. "I want to be a part of my child's life."

"Okay," she said with a small smile, finally meeting his eye. Her smile fell, however, when another thought crossed her mind. "How will Astoria—"

"Astoria won't care," Draco said, which was true enough. Astoria was more than willing to disregard his indiscretions, provided he afforded her the same courtesy. "My parents, on the other hand…"

Surprised to feel her hand on his, Draco looked at the witch.

"I'm sorry for what I said earlier," she said.

He shrugged, grabbing her hand in his. "Don't be. It's true enough. Merlin, this might just kill my father." It was not a conversation he was looking forward to having.

Hermione moved closer and Draco put an arm around her, glad of the contact. It was a bloody mess any way he looked at it, but he'd make it work. They'd make it work.

"I'm sorry for what I said as well." He hesitated for a second before adding, "But the Prophet  _will_ be all over this. It won't be pretty."

There was something to be said for the notion that the best thing he could do for Hermione and their child was to stay well away.

Hermione was silent for a moment. She was leaning against him, her back against his chest, and from that angle he couldn't see her face.

"When I was fifteen years old," she finally said, "I trapped Rita Skeeter in a jar for a week. I'm not afraid of that woman. I didn't put up a fight last time, but if she comes after me again, if she comes after my child, I will crush her like the bug she is."

Draco laughed softly, kissing her temple. "I do so love it when you're terrifying."

Reaching for his other hand, she settled more comfortably against him.

"We can't keep doing this," she said after a while. They had somehow ended up lying down on the sofa, Hermione half on top of him.

Draco did not need to ask what 'this' was.

"I know," he said.

"You'll be married soon," Hermione continued, "and I draw the line at sleeping with a married man."

"I know," he repeated, tightening his arms around her as if to keep her just a little while longer.

"But we'll be civil." She sat up on the sofa, turning to look at him. "Civil and sensible, and we'll get along. We'll have a child, we can't—"

"We'll get along," he agreed, pulling her back down on top of him.

"We could be friends."

She lifted her head, turning to face him.

"We could. I'm an excellent friend."

And to prove just how excellent, he cupped her face with his hand and kissed her, a slow, lingering kiss.

"That's not very friendly," she complained rather unconvincingly.

He shrugged. "Practice makes perfect. We should start tomorrow."

Smiling, Hermione kissed him again, a soft, teasing kiss that grew deeper and more heated until they were both out of breath.

He and Hermione would never be friends. Not before they had been a great many deal of other things first, and maybe not even then.

There would be no wedding. Even if Hermione did not want to be his wife, he could not marry Astoria. He knew that, even as he pretended differently. He loved his parents and he wanted to make them proud, but the life they wanted for him was very different from the life he wanted for himself. And Astoria deserved better than to marry someone who was in love with someone else.

It occurred to him that maybe he did too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Hope you enjoyed it :)


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